


everything you've ever been

by weezly14



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Gen, If you squint maybe?, i mean i know it's there but i wrote it so, so like not at all, very vaguely shippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-31 00:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13963638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weezly14/pseuds/weezly14
Summary: "(Sometimes, in dreams, he smells his father’s soap; feels the brush of his mother’s lips on his forehead; feels the soft warmth that came from being curled up in bed between his parents on those rare mornings where no one had anywhere to be, and he was still small and loved and not a problem yet; sometimes he still hears their voices, hears words he can’t place, doesn’t remember hearing them say before, words like come home and we miss you and familiarly unfamiliar words like I love you – and his name, his old name, the name of the dead boy he once was, the dead foolish boy who thought the jedi could save him – Ben, Ben, Ben, B – )"





	everything you've ever been

**Author's Note:**

> i have lots of thoughts and feelings about ben solo/kylo ren - who would’ve thought? so here’s something - not reylo so much as ben/kylo character study - and it’s my first stab at these characters, so, i dunno. be kind? 
> 
> those you’ve known from spring awakening is great and inspired this piece and lends lyrics to the title, so give it a listen if you can.

**everything you’ve ever been**

**-**

_those you've known_

_and lost still walk behind you._

-

 

            He can’t remember when the nightmares started, and in some ways, it feels like he had them always. He can’t remember peaceful sleep as a child; maybe as an infant he’d slept well, but given how often his parents would unsmilingly joke about the difficult baby he’d been, he doubts it.

            He remembers once, when he must’ve been seven or eight, waking up from a nightmare in a cold sweat, the shadows scarier and the room warmer than he could bear. He remembers the buzzing – the soft voice in his head, like static – and feeling sick and claustrophobic.

            He remembers swinging his feet off his bed and heading out of his room – for fresh air, for a cup of water, for anything that could pass as a distraction – and coming across his father, sitting in the living room and nursing a glass of what was probably alcohol. He saw Ben, and finished off his drink, and set down his glass (the sound loud in the silence), and said, “I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since you were born. Even when it’s not you, it’s you.”

            Ben said nothing. The warmth in his cheeks didn’t ease any with the fresh air, or the comment, or the company. (His father – and mother – had a way of taking up space, of filling wherever they happened to be so entirely it felt like he had nothing left, like there wasn’t enough oxygen, wasn’t enough room to sustain him _and_ them.) He and his father looked at each other for a moment, and then his father got up, and moved past him without touching him into the kitchen, and Ben heard the opening of cupboards, and when he followed found that his father had poured him a glass of water and was heating up soup.

            “I’m not hungry,” he said softly.

            “Drink,” his father said, ignoring him. Ben did. The water was like ice down his throat, and the static in his head turned to a low buzz, and he closed his eyes for a moment and let himself enjoy, for just a second, this moment of quiet with his father. Their moments were so rarely this still. There was a low level of irritation in the air, but Ben couldn’t be sure if it was directed at him, or his mother, or something completely unknown. His father could get irritable at times, the tension rolling off him like waves, and Ben, so attuned to so many things, couldn’t help but pick it up. Sometimes he wished he could shut everything off – the voice in his head, the feelings he felt, all the feelings from everyone else – he wished so desperately for quiet and peace.

            “If your stomach’s full you’ll get back to sleep easier,” his father said suddenly, breaking Ben out of his thoughts.

            “I don’t think that’s true.”

            He remembers regretting the words as soon as he said them, remembers flinching slightly as his father sighed, loud and annoyed and probably tired and a little drunk. He wasn’t even trying to be contradictory; he just couldn’t help it.

            “Well, I’m having soup and if you don’t want any you can go back to bed.”

            Ben sat on a stool, then, and watched his father stir the contents of the pot, and pull out two bowls, and ladle soup into each. He set one in front of Ben and then sank into the stool across from him. Ben breathed in deep the warmth and the scent of it, and took a small spoonful.

            “Thanks.”

            His father nodded.

            The static grew louder the longer he sat, and the distance between them seemed to grow, too. When Ben finished his soup he put his bowl in the sink, and filled his cup again, and drank it down in one gulp. His father had, by this time, grabbed his glass from the living room and refilled it.

            He remembers wishing they could speak, wishing he knew what words to say to his father, wishing his father would attempt a few of his own in the silence. How often had he wished for peace in their interactions? And yet, in this moment of it, he found himself longing for something – anything. Some acknowledgment beyond obligation and annoyance.

            The voice in his head began speaking again and Ben tried to drown it out, but he knew it would only grow louder the longer he sat, waiting for his father to say something. He stood up.

            “Night, Dad.”

            “Yeah. Sleep well.”

            Ben attempted a smile that was probably more of a grimace, not that his father was looking at him anyway.

            He went back to his room and climbed back into bed, still slightly damp from his sweat, and closed his eyes. Took deep breaths, willed the static to go away, or get softer; willed the shadows to disappear, willed himself to go back to sleep. The voice came back again, but sleep did, too, thought it was not a peaceful sleep - but then, it never was.

            When he woke up the next morning, his mother was gone on some work trip, and he’d wet the bed, and his father had circles under his eyes as he changed the sheets.

            Ben tried to get out the words, “I’m sorry,” but they stuck in his throat, and the voice was deafening all day, and all the next night, and –

\---

            In some ways, he feels like the voice was his first memory.

\---

            When he thinks of his mother, he thinks of her voice. He remembers how she’d come into his room and kiss his forehead, whisper a goodbye, or be good for your dad, or _I love you, Ben_ before she left – she was always leaving – for work or a trip or a conference. He thinks of his mother and he thinks of her voice, first, because her presence was rare. She’d leave holos for him, she’d whisper hellos and goodbyes as he drifted through sleep, she’d tell him to fix his collar before a fancy dinner or sigh and tell him she was busy or to close the door on his way out or _not now, Ben_.

            His father would lead him around the city by the hand, talking and talking, stopping to chat with everyone. Sometimes Chewie would let him ride on his shoulders, and he remembers the safety of it, of being held by Chewie, of his father’s hand closed around his own, the rumble of Chewie’s voice and the rumble of his father’s. He remembers, as a very small child, climbing into his parents’ bed in the mornings, often after a poor night’s sleep; his mother, usually already gone, and his father, sprawled and snoring. Ben remembers how he’d lift his father’s arm and curl up with him; how safe he felt there. The voice would not touch him here. The voice left him alone when he was with his father, and so Ben sought him often.

            And yet, as he got older, his father grew tired. Didn’t understand why Ben was so clingy still, why he still acted so young. Why he wet the bed. The voice started invading his mind even in his father’s presence, and Ben didn’t know what to do.

            He thinks of his father and he doesn’t know what he thinks; he remembers safety and annoyance, remembers how his father used to ask him to pass tools as he worked on some ship or other, remembers how he’d tell him to go find someone else to play with.

            He thinks of his parents and he thinks of loneliness. How even when they were all together it was like there was a gaping hole, like they were all elsewhere, like they were all distracted. There and not there. Present and absent. And then, often, actually gone.

            He thinks of his parents and he thinks of their voices, mingled and hard in their softness as they spoke after he’d been put to bed, talking about his mother’s schedule or his father’s lack of direction, or _him_ – his silence, his nightmares, his lack of friends, his tantrums, his bed wetting.

            “We coddle him.”

            “ _We?_ ”

            “Oh, that’s right, you aren’t here enough to do anything –”

            “You agreed –”

            “So did you!”

            “Well we need to do something –”

            “Yeah, no kidding.”

            “Luke –”

            Pause.

            “What about Luke?”

            “He offered to take him. Train him.”

            “A Jedi?”

            “You know he has it, Han. I can sense it, Luke – maybe he needs the discipline of the academy – to be around kids like him.”

            “That’s what you think is wrong with him?”

            “I don’t know _what’s_ wrong with him, Han. But maybe Luke can help.”

            “And what if he can’t?”

            Pause.

            “At this point? It’s our only hope.”

            “Doesn’t sound like hope, it sounds like giving up.”

            “What else can we do? Do _you_ have any suggestions?”

            Pause.

“Fine.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Can’t we – just once – ”

“Let’s not get into this – ”

“Then you stop – ”

            “I’ll let Luke know in the morning.”

Pause.

            “I want to take him. We’re not having Luke send some stranger to pick him up – like we’re shipping him away for bad behavior.”

            “Luke would come for him.”

            “Luke is a stranger to him, too.”

            “This is the best thing for him.”

            “Why can’t _this_ be the best thing for him?”

            “I don’t know.”

            Silence.

            Even the voice stopped for this.

            Then –

            _I told you._

Then –

            _Wrong – they think there’s something **wrong** with you. _

Maybe, Ben thought, there was.

            ( _But maybe_ , whispered the small voice that felt like warmth and sun and safety, the voice so often drowned out by the anger and the other voice and the static, the voice he so often forgot about, that nudged at his mind every so often, only to be beat back down by the voice he would soon learn was called Snoke – _maybe_ _Uncle Luke can fix it. Fix me._ )

\---

            He didn’t.

\---

            When he thinks of Luke Skywalker he thinks of control. He thinks of hardness disguised as softness, eyes that looked at him in disappointment, hands rough as they corrected his stance, his movements – Luke Skywalker was not _uncle_ at the academy, he was _Master_. He played the role well; his voice was not distant as his mother’s had often been, it was ever present. Like Ben’s mother, Luke’s presence filled spaces. Ben always knew when he was near.

            Luke was kind at first, then grew hard – like Ben’s father, Luke first felt safe, but then he, too, grew tired. Where Han turned to irritation, Luke turned to the force. Han was never trying to pretend to be anything other than he was – he was a father at the end of his rope, and he acted accordingly. Luke, though, was Jedi Master Luke; the chosen one; the last and the best and the brightest and _our only hope_. Luke would not give in to the pettiness, the darkness of mere annoyance – instead, he became firm, pushed Ben harder, snapped at him to control his mind, to turn to the light, to turn from anger and selfishness. Whenever Ben acted out – something he did as often at the academy as he had at home (Snoke was growing louder, more powerful; Ben didn’t feel peace in his own skin, in his own head; nowhere felt safe, felt quiet enough, felt _his_ ; and no one would understand – not his mother, not his father, not _Luke_ – the only one who understood was Snoke, and Snoke was the problem – but when Ben gave in a little, when he entertained the thoughts Snoke suggested, he quieted; he felt brief peace; he began to seek it, the rush of it like a high; he could not control his mind or his body but when he made Snoke happy he was allowed the briefest peace, and what did Luke have to offer that compared? When had the light offered him such bliss?) – he acted out in frustration, wanted to tear out his own hair, his own teeth; the buzzing and the noise of _everything_ so intense he couldn’t help but lash out at people, at items, at droids, anger and destruction so easy for him – it was in those moments that Luke was harshest, forcing him into solitude, into meditation.

            It was in those moments that Snoke grew strongest.

            When he thinks of Luke, he can barely think for the emotions, the ones he refuses to name, to feel – feels only the boiling, the dropping sensation, the cold sweat –

            _He wants to kill you._

            He remembers waking up, and seeing him, lightsaber raised –

            _He doesn’t understand you, he wants you dead –_

The look on his face.

            _DESTROY HIM._

\---

            He destroyed many things that night.

            (Sometimes, he thinks he destroyed himself, too. Or maybe Luke did that.)

\---

            Snoke was cruel, but he was honest, at least. He was upfront about it. Kylo (Ben was dead, Ben died in that room that night, Ben was killed by his uncle, but his father, by his mother, by all the people who failed him) knew what to expect from Snoke; knew better than to expect love, or gratitude, or kindness. Snoke offered him power, and Snoke showed him how powerful he really was. Snoke taught him more than Luke ever had.

            Snoke was also a master, but so familiar that Ben – Kylo – felt he’d been following him his whole life. Under Snoke, Kylo Ren was born; and for the first time in his life, he felt peace for more than mere minutes at a time. He did not feel safe, exactly, but he felt prepared. He was allowed to fight, allowed to rage – allowed to feel all the things he felt – and more than that, people feared him. Listened to him. Kylo Ren was not a child to be dealt with; to be handled; was not ignored or pushed aside or groaned at. Kylo Ren commanded power and respect. The only one to question him and get away with it was his master, but his master was only trying to make him stronger.

            Sometimes, he thought of his parents, and Snoke was there in his mind, berating him as they had, reminding him of how they’d abandoned him. Whenever his thoughts turned to them and turned favorable, Snoke was there to remind him of the truth, and soon, Kylo no longer needed reminding.

            He turned instead to his grandfather, the great Lord Vader. The only family _worth_ remembering, worth thinking about; the only family who would have understood.

            Ben died at his noble uncle’s hand – his fraud of an uncle, a pretender, a hypocrite, a jealous, foolish old man – but Kylo was born from the ashes of those slaughtered that night, and Kylo was stronger and greater than Ben ever was, ever could have been.

            The light was a lie, a foolish dream. The darkness was greater; the light for those too weak to understand or wield power. His uncle had been weak; his parents and their little alliance of rebels also weak. Snoke would reign supreme, and Kylo would sit at his right hand.

            _This_ was how it was always meant to be.

\---

            And yet –

\---

            (Sometimes, in dreams, he smells his father’s soap; feels the brush of his mother’s lips on his forehead; feels the soft warmth that came from being curled up in bed between his parents on those rare mornings where no one had anywhere to be, and he was still small and loved and not a problem yet; sometimes he still hears their voices, hears words he can’t place, doesn’t remember hearing them say before, words like _come home_ and _we miss you_ and familiarly unfamiliar words like _I love you_ – and his name, his old name, the name of the dead boy he once was, the dead foolish boy who thought the jedi could save him – _Ben, Ben, Ben, B –_ )

\---

            But maybe –

            Maybe if can destroy them all, he will have peace – maybe if he can cut those pieces of them from himself, the conflict within will cease –

            Maybe if he can track down his foolish, cowardly, _weak_ uncle, if _he_ can be the one to destroy him – to destroy the jedi, forever, _for good_ –

\---

            There is a girl.

\---

            He invades her mind like Snoke did his – like Snoke taught him – pushes through the memories of sand and solitude (ignores the pangs, the want – oh, how he would have traded places with her, what he would’ve given for peace and loneliness where no one could find him) – pushes through further still and sees dreams, feels the want within her, the desperation, the fear, the grief – so strong he can taste it, so familiar –

            _Han Solo_.

\---

            (Destroy the past. Kill it if you must.)

\---

            “He would have disappointed you.”

 _Like he disappointed me_.

            “Get out of my head,” she says.

            (He remembers when he had that same sort of fight. he can’t remember when he gave up. He assumes she will, too. Soon enough.)

            _It’s easier to give in_ , he wants to tell her – but that, he knows, is dangerous. That feels too much like _help_ , and he is not here to help her – he is here to extract information, to break her as he was broken – for the Supreme Leader – so that they may find Luke Skywalker – so they might _kill him_.

\---

            _Luke Skywalker._

_Han Solo._

_\---_

“He means nothing to me.”

_\---_

_Nothing._

\---

(He feels –

_\---_

_It is time to complete your training._

_\---_

(He feels –

\---

            “I am ready.”

\---

            “Come home. We miss you.”

            “I’m being torn apart. I want to be free of this pain.”

            _You will never be free – I will never be free – Ben – Kylo – come – please – NO -_

\---

            (And what is freedom, anyway? Is it what that girl had – freedom to dream of a place she’s never been, to long for something she will never have? Freedom to be disappointed and betrayed and abandoned, freedom to be controlled and manipulated and invaded? Is that freedom? Is that all the light has to offer? The opportunity to be controlled? At least Snoke gives him power, at least Snoke offers something in return, at least – )

\---

            The girl screamed as he fell, and it felt like his own scream – like she gave voice to his own soul (ripped, shred, torn in two, _oh this pain_ ) –

            The girl fought, all emotion, raw and untrained and powerful – _so powerful_ –

            _She reminds me of me –_ he thinks, stupidly – _before I – if I –_

“You need a teacher. I could show you – ”

            ( _We could learn together, you need and I need, we –_ )

\---

            Luke (murderer, traitor, fool, coward) tried to show him the ways of the force, tried to sway him to the light, but the light that Luke offered was so bright, too bright – it was the brightness that you can barely stand, that you squint against, that feels too much when you’ve been in a dark room for a long time and the light is suddenly switched on. You can barely see through it, it’s so overpowering and foreign. The light Luke offered was too much a shock to his system, already so damaged and controlled by Snoke.

\---

            The girl –

            The girl called Rey, she is full of light, too, and yet there’s a familiar darkness to her that he sees and recognizes – he probed her mind and he saw – something – something –

\---

            Rey is dark _and_ light, full of anger and loneliness like he was (is) – and yet there’s a light that she exudes that feels different, inviting – attainable –

            Like the light one sees far, far away. Not within reach, not yet – but perhaps – maybe one day – the light at the end of a tunnel, or shining through a window – not so bright as to blind, but to guide – strong enough to be visible, to make its presence known, but not enough to threaten. Luke’s light was threatening, intimidating as Snoke’s darkness – overwhelming and enveloping.

            But Rey –

            Rey –

\---

            _He means nothing to me._

_\---_

_torn –_

_\---_

_come –_

_\---_

_Ben –_

_\---_

_Nothing._

_\---_

“She means – ”

\---

            _Ben –_

_\---_

_Turn –_

_\---_

“But not to me.”

\---

            (But still she turns – from him.)

\---

            For the first time in his life, he feels peace within his own mind. Snoke is gone, _dead_ (destroyed) – his mind is free –

            Except when she –

\---

            “I’ll destroy her.” _As she destroyed me._ “And you.” _Traitor, coward, hypocrite._ “And all of it.”

            _Everything – burn it down – kill the past –_

“No. Strike me down in anger and I will always be with you. Just like your father.”

            Images flash – scents and memories and feelings, too much, not enough, overpowering, no, no, _no, NO –_

But he is gone. A projection. There and not there. (Oh, how familiar.)

            She, too, is there and not there.

            And he is alone.

\---

            (And yet –

            They stay with him, all of them, their words and their feelings and their thoughts, all of them fighting for room in his mind, all of them lingering with him, like ghosts he cannot shake, that he cannot see, whose presence he cannot help feeling, always, wherever he goes.)

\---

            Maybe one day he will learn how to fill his own space; learn to breathe his own air. But for now, they remain, at war within him as he goes to war with her.

\---

            (Maybe he never let them go after all.)

\---

            (Perhaps – he doesn’t actually want to.)


End file.
